


Black Desire

by ZephyrCamida



Series: Color Your Arousal [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AKA Vampire!Marco, Biting, Bittersweet, Blood, Corpse Demon!Marco, Dark, M/M, Shiki AU, atmosphere, clothed handjobs, creepiness, outdoor sex (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:39:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1981593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZephyrCamida/pseuds/ZephyrCamida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mindless, he had scrambled from his bed, clad in only sweatpants and a heart thundering like a violent drum, out into the night – out to that voice. </p><p>Out to Marco. </p><p>He hadn't even looked twice at the dirt streaks left on his window."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Desire

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen the anime/manga/novel Shiki aka Corpse Demon, I highly recommend it. The references/folklore with vampires is referenced from that. 
> 
> Also, this fic was largely driven by my listening to "Everybody wants to rule the world" by Lorde and also "Bad Moon Rising" by Mourning Ritual. Mostly the former. Check those songs out, they're dark and match the tone of this story well, I think.

**Black Desire**

* * *

 

“There's a room where the light won't find you  
Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down  
When they do, I'll be right behind you.”

 - Lorde

* * *

 

The chill that shoots through Jean's skin is as quick and sharp as the wind the billows around him. Lips, pale and startlingly soft for whom they belong, are molding over his – familiar strokes and gentle nips that paint his cheeks and neck with a dazzling hue of crimson. He's falling under a well known spell that sends him blissfully over the edge of a steep cliff – the air piercing gasps that breath from him are definitely proof of that.

 

He licks between kisses, the taste on his tongue musty and acrid, but he savors it. Savors it, welcomes it because it's slowly molding into something much more sweet – much more _him._ Maybe it's ludicrous, feeling that way, but color him crazy, he'll devour that taste with delirious fervor – because he _wants_ him.

 

Jean hears the rustling of trees, as if they're whirling and screaming with as much animosity as a fevered beast – loud and piercing in his ears. Mother Nature at her worst, howling her displeasure. He shifts against the tree behind him, the body flush against his front, and fails to suppress the moan that spills from his swollen lips as a leg wedges between this thighs. It fades away into the cool dusk air, but the deep sigh that he hears in return yanks him back to the ground. His hands, twitching with raw sensation, paw and curve around the neck of the man in front him – heartbreaking and familiar.

 

His lover.

 

His _one week dead_ lover.

 

“Marco,” he breathes, eyes unfocused, dipping between the unsettling sky of stars and endless splendor and the deep chasms of his lover's eyes – black depths and carmine irises that reach into him and pull something frighteningly murky from his very soul.

 

It hurts.

 

It hurts so bad, that this person isn't supposed to exist anymore, yet here he stands – here he kisses with the same passion that Jean remembers every torturous day he lives without him.

 

“ _Mmm_ ,” the brunette mumbles into him, claiming kiss after kiss as his only means to communicate his sorrow, his pain, and his desire to be attached to the living, to his beloved. To Jean. Jean sees the glistening in his lover's dead eyes, can only imagine just how much meaning is flowing in those lightless orbs. Can only imagine what those eyes might have looked like when Marco first came to him earlier that night.

 

It was sudden, jarring him from a rare slumber - insomnia was a more common acquaintance than sleep during that week. 

 

“ _Jean, let me in, please,”_ Marco had pleaded then, voice rough from sobbing as he pawed at the glass. _“I can't come in. I can't...please, Jean?”_

 

Jean had been rendered numb in his bed that very instant, body frozen with the most unsettling feeling of blithe reverie. Unsettling because Jean should not have felt that way, should not have welcomed that presence, that warm pooling in his chest.

 

Because Marco should have been dead.

 

Jean lived that nightmare. Marco had gotten sick mysteriously, just like the supposed disease that spread throughout their little, sheltered town killing young and old one by one in a disgustingly patterned dance – a lethal, black waltz.

 

Simple bug bites, the doctor had said, nothing to be done. Rest and plenty of liquids was all he could recommend.

 

What a load of utter bullshit.

 

They were so close to leaving this wretched place, the eve of their departure to be exact, when Marco got worse. Comatose and sickly pale, there was nothing to be done. Even if Jean wanted to take him and run – get his dying lover out of there _so fucking bad_ , they couldn't leave anymore.

 

 _Marco_ couldn't leave anymore.

 

Jean sat by his side for hours, restless yet lethargic, unable to do anything but simply wait for his lover's inevitable end to come.

 

Agonizing, heart-destroying, Jean couldn't have felt more dead when he walked back into their room with a new bowl of water and fresh washcloth to a lifeless lover, deathly pale yet inhumanly serene.

 

That's why, he reasons, he was so desperate to reach out to that voice – calling him soft like velvet. Mindless, he had scrambled from his bed, clad in only sweatpants and a heart thundering like a violent drum, out into the night – out to that voice.

 

Out to Marco.

 

He hadn't even looked twice at the dirt streaks left on his window.

 

The threshold between his home and the frenzied outside was a sharp transition, but as if lead by an invisible rope, he tore through the trees and mussed earth. It felt like the world around him was warding him away, and whether or not it was his frantic mind or a twisted illusion, it was like the roots reached out for him – narrowly missing his ankles, leaving trails of labyrinth darkness behind him.

 

He lived in this village for his entire life, yet he managed to become lost within minutes of wild and directionless searching. Breath harsh and painful, he stopped in a small clearing, shouted out to the night – hand clamped and pressing hard to his heart.

 

“ _Marco, where are you?! Please, show yourself!”_

 

Marco had descended instantly, hands thick with caked dirt wrapping around the thin blond faster than he could even comprehend his movement. Jean's name whispered shakily in his ear, heavenly yet muddied and rough, and he soon found himself backed into a tree – bark crackling under the impact and leaving stinging scrapes on Jean's bare skin from the brute force.

 

He hissed from the pain, body contorting against the wood to fix a tight grip on the person in front of him – hands on a distinctly freckled face.

 

It was then that Jean really got a good look at the man embracing him, bubbling incoherent words and face distorted with desperation, fear and unbridled longing all mashed into one very tall, very not dead Marco.

 

He reeled back so fast, his skull cracked against the trunk behind him. The sharp pain had left him breathless, stomach constricting as he tensed instinctively from the chilly touch of his lover. Marco leaned close, mouth at his chin, still mumbling – still afraid.

 

“ _I don't know why...back...but 'm...so,”_ his mouth dropped open, harsh pant and toxic mix of flesh and earth invading Jean's senses. Amber eyes see them though, those sharp, ivory teeth amidst the human canines. _“...wanted to see you.”_

 

And that very statement led them to the here and now – Marco kissing with surprisingly tender lips and while he's careful not to delve too deep, his taste is natural. Like Marco, not like death, which baffles the overwhelmed Jean. He doesn't understand the mind-numbing combination of life and underworld, how it's utterly intoxicating and welcome to him.

 

He wants it. He grasps at it because it's Marco – his _lover_ . That's why Jean's arms are around his shoulders, pulling that slowly warming body close, ignorance of anything except that it's _Marco_ in front of him prevalent over anything else.

 

He'll permit this connection, because the feeling of his lover is more important than his possibly compromised safety – life. He'll turn his back on everything else, because _his everything_ is right here, and not Mother Nature, or the dark vortex of stars and sky above him will stop that.

 

“It's okay,” Jean pulls his lips away momentarily, presses the plush flesh against Marco's forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his pale lips. “It's okay.”

 

He kisses him again, much more fluid and coated with passion, with a need that has been festering under Jean's skin since that fateful day one week ago. That leg hikes up further, pressing against Jean's groin. The blond stiffens a groan, hands pulling hair and erection swelling between rolling hips.

 

“Jean,” the whisper is watery, like there are several voices speaking at once, an emotional overload. Jean can hear the conflict in Marco's tone. “Jean, you _smell so good_.”

 

The blond cranes his head, moaning into the night air as his hard cock is rubbed insistently on Marco's thigh. He's quickly drowning under the ministrations – shivering hands brushing over pink nipples, lips suckling and peeling him open to delve into his warm mouth, murmurs pulling him under.

 

Even the stings from his bark-clawed back have him buzzing with excitement, with a deluge of sudden euphoria.

 

“God, Marco,” he tumbles down, body rocking against Marco, hands clawing uncontrollably. The brunette is careful, fangs brushing, but never piercing and the tongue tangling between Jean's lips leave him boneless – body wrapped around his lover tight. Jean eyes waver, amber dripping with arousal and blown pupils to match, watching Marco as he pinches a nipple. Watches as another hand strokes down his bare stomach, dirtied nails scraping over his navel and feathering over sharp pelvic bones – hand cupping his cock over the cotton of his sweatpants.

 

Marco hums against Jean's mouth, warmth and chill mingling like an eternal paradox, and squeezes down below, taking the blond's clothed cock between his fingers.

 

God, it feels so amazing, intense and _burning_ that Jean can't help the mewls that escape between kisses and licks. Marco's stroking him, fabric of his underwear and pants creating a delicious friction that electrifies – makes him howl.

 

It leaves Jean drowning in a whirlwind of emotions and pleasure that definitely rivals the quaking nature around him. It feels so right, having his lover here, being in his arms. His brain is tickling with that reminder too, though. Leaves him faintly battling – mind versus body and heart and soul, and Jean already knows which is winning.

 

It isn't even a contest. He simply can't let go, drunk on Marco's touches and whispers and _his very presence._

 

“Marco,” Jean sighs, whimpers as his stomach begins to build that delicate, coiling sensation. Twisting and twisting as the brunette pulls and strokes and cups Jean's begging cock. He can tell that his pants are wet with precome, can tell that he isn't going to last long under such prying touches. He wants it though, so, so bad. “Marco, feels so... _ngh.”_

 

Marco's mouthing at Jean's chin, he can feel those sharp points dragging against his skin as the brunette nips helplessly, but Jean only pulls him closer. He buries his mind, lets everything else have free reign, freedom to inundate completely under his lover's touches. Marco still knows his body well, still knows where to touch and how hard to pinch and how rough to tug his needy cock.

 

“ _Jean..._ ” the brunette keens, the fingers above pinching a pink tip, drinking up Jean's moans. “Jean, _I can't...hold it in...your scent._ ”

 

Jean knows. Knows because Marco is now breathing in his scent right at the hairline behind his ear, lips brushing, breathing in suffocating pants. As soon as he saw those fangs, he knew it would come to this point eventually, though the meager conflict is well snuffed out by now.

 

He wants to say comforting words, Jean really does, but the moment his lips part, only inaudible echoes, sighs and groans thick with heightened arousal flood out. His cock is throbbing so bad that it's almost dizzying, spilling so hot in his lap that he almost wants to yank his pants down himself to free the damned thing. So he can feel even more of Marco on his skin. But he doesn't – he can't because it's taking all he has to keep afloat, arms vice-like around his lover's broad shoulders.

 

“ _Marco,_ ” he warns, body lurching forward, fingers digging hard into pale flesh. “Marco, I'm gonna...”

 

Marco strokes harder, groans at the light and breathy tone the blond takes as he climbs higher and higher beneath seductive brushes and heavy strokes. Jean feels Marco's other hand – the one pulling sharp gasps every time it tweaks a stiff nipple between index and thumb – crawl up his body, cradle his jaw and thumb his cheek. The blond stiffens briefly, hiccups as his lover leans in, kisses his lips again – hot and needy.

 

“Jean,” Jean hears the dampened murmur, over and over in his ear as his head is tilted ever so slowly to the side, exposing his thundering pulse under tan skin. “Jean. Jean. _Jean._ ”

 

_I know. I know. It's okay, I know._

 

His mind is racing now, heart ready to explode, body pulsing with euphoric hunger. Jean nearly chokes on the air around him, heavy and overbearing as Marco wraps his fingers around his cock as much as he is able through the cloth. Marco's lips are quivering on his neck, Jean's name a mantra that never stops even as pointed canines graze the invisible line of his collar. He squeezes the brunette closer still, lets all the desperate noises crawling from his throat loose.

 

Jean comes moments later, and he swears that he sees the stars so close, even when the sky is covered in thick clouds now. White spots flicker behind his lids as he careens back, the cry that breaks out is as sharp as the fangs that bury themselves into his neck – lips sealing over the opening wound. Jean jerks, half from his orgasm crashing like a wave of ecstasy and half from the abrupt jolt of fleeting pain cutting into him. He cambers back, body bending almost unnaturally as he feels Marco lap at the wound, suck life blood from him like a lover leaves a love bite.

 

Soft, tingling, tender.

 

Marco cradles him in his arms, strength solid and holding Jean in place, keeps him from descending to the ground in a boneless heap. Several seconds, they stand there – clinging to each other – until Marco finally lets him go, licks the lingering trail of red that trickled away from his thirsting.

 

Jean shudders at the night air whistling at his skin, sucks in a sharp breath as Marco hovers in front of him. Those empty pools of black and red, staring, Jean guesses there is worry at home there.

 

“Jean,” he mutters weakly, upper lip quivering and dipping down as if to hide those monstrous teeth from his drained lover. Jean shakes his head, eyes hazy as he begins to quickly feel loopy, teetering dangerously into unconsciousness. Jean cradles his lover then, pulls him in for a brief, coppery kiss – the lingers of blood from Marco's lips fail to even faze Jean. His heart still pounds in his chest, slow, but still thundering like mad in his ears, and his neck wound throbs with tainted life. Jean leans into his lover, lets his cheek rest upon a beatless neck, his mouth brushing gently on the nostalgic spots on Marco's skin. He reaches down, hand searching until he finds its match, lacing fingers and holding tight. Being close makes the dizziness wane, even if only a little. Marco guides them to the ground, careful to pull Jean away from the tree to avoid further injury. The blond lets himself fall into open arms, never letting go of that hand -  can't help but be afraid that letting go means he'll somehow wake up from a dream and Marco won't be there anymore. 

 

Amber eyes raise, questioning, “What's gonna happen?”

 

“Ah,” Marco swallows, voice low. “It...it won't do anything if I...if I stay away...”

 

Jean blinks, slow and lethargic, thinking, “Will you stay away?”

 

 _Do I want you to stay away?_ Jean knows the answer to that. 

 

Marco smiles wryly, nuzzles briefly into the palm finding its way onto his cheek. Even through the blurry fog that seems to cloak Jean's vision, he can see the glossy tears pooling at the corners of those unfamiliar, but very familiar eyes. Spilling softly down pale, freckled cheeks. He lifts, but falls limp. He wants to kiss those tears way. 

 

"Jean..." the blond recognizes that tone. Remorse. 

 

He doesn't hear the words Marco says next, mind too fuzzy and ears clogged like he's underwater. Jean watches though, as he slips down, down, down, watches Marco's lips as they mouth the words he can't hear. Three words, three –

 

He falls, finally succumbs to the night and the stars and the lover whom he desperately holds – never wanting to let go.

 

Jean wakes two days later, sits in his small bed while the doctor inspects him – pulls his head this way and that, checks his rapid heart rate, jots down pointless words. Jean's silent, almost unsettling, and it's only when the man at his bedside regards him does he look up at him with distant amber eyes. The scent of cleanliness and disinfectant seems oddly pungent, vulgar to his dulled sense. He resists turning away, keeps an air of indifference. 

 

“The bites don't appear infected, but I'll prescribe you some antibiotics and pain killers. Rest and plenty of liquids is about all you can do right now.”

 

Jean grunts, though his neutral expression hides any inner feeling on those disgustingly familiar words. Despite that, he's thoughtful for a moment. Then - 

 

“Will I die, doctor?”

 

“I...” the man trails off, watching the blond with a vague look of confusion, then realization. He shifts from one foot to the other, fingers clutching the clipboard tight as he replies, nonplused. “I'm not sure, Mr. Kirschtein, I apologize.”

 

Jean shakes his head, tilts his chin awkwardly back to fix his sight on the doctor, “That's okay, doctor. It doesn't matter.” He's silent for several moments, and blinks slowly once more as the doctor shuffles on the spot again from his vapid stare. The aura of discomfort from the bulky man beside him makes Jean feel odd, warm. 

 

He smiles, lip pulling up, “It doesn't matter – _I'll be back._ ”

 

Jean ignores the startled doctor as he quickly packs up his things in favor of glancing out his bedroom window – out into the woods outside, dark and permeating with the dense fog that seeped in early that morning like an afterglow from the storm the day before. The trees rustle with the light breeze, and silent, Jean tilts his head – eyes locking with the murky depths.

 

“It's okay,” he murmurs gently to himself, hands laced together in his lap.

 

_I'll be back._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I can't write fluffy vampire fics like all the amazing writers on Tumblr. When I think of vampires, I tend to think of dark things and/or Shiki. Shiki is one of my all time favorite anime and I highly recommend it for anyone who loves a dark story, a grey vs gray morality setting, and a very bittersweet ending. This fic kinda took over and fought out my punk/pastel one, but that's okay. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed. Let me know - Kuds, comments, find me on Tumblr (ZephyrCamida). Whatever. Regardless, thanks for reading! <333


End file.
